


When Words Fail

by 1yellowfish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1yellowfish/pseuds/1yellowfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg doesn't listen to the words, not when the actions are so much more telling. Leading to Slash. M/M Rating for one line. Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Words Fail

**Author's Note:**

> Written because honestly I was ignoring the three classes I was supposed to be observing. It was early and in Chinese. I don't speak Chinese. I wanted to be asleep so this happened instead. I regret nothing.

Greg had known Sherlock for years. He’d helped him sober-up. He’d helped him when injured. He’d checked him into hospital, snuck him out AMA, and checked him back in when he was being an idiot. He never expected the cold man to thank him or express his gratitude in any form. He took the disdain and snapping as compliments because it was the closest the slim man would come, and sometimes Greg thought as close as he could come to expressing social niceties.

Over the years they had achieved a silent language of subtleties: raised eyebrows, quirked lips, minutely dropped shoulders and very rarely a bowed head. These were how Sherlock conveyed the truth, the fact that the seemingly unmovable man was human, complete with all those inconvenient flaws and emotions inherent in the condition. If Greg hadn’t stayed with Sherlock through his painful withdrawal and his emotional beak associated with it, Greg may have continued to believe the bandied phrase of “high functioning sociopath” and never developed their unique silent language at all. He honestly didn’t want to think about how much poorer his life would be without the man’s acquaintance.

With all this in mind when he found himself in a warehouse after a particularly grueling day and introduces to a man who claimed to be his friends, and he did consider the prat a friend, brother he was prepared for the cool aloof behavior. He found he wasn’t even particularly bothered by the almost kidnapping. He leant back and dealt the man the same sharp tone he’d used on Sherlock when they’d first met. He had expected the aristocratic tone, the false modesty though, that had surprised him. He didn’t like it.

The two danced a polite none conversation around each other with their words. The transcript, and there was no doubt in Lestrade’s mind the man would have a transcript, would be a boring read. Despite the fact the talk had made the police officer dizzy. What was truly interesting wasn’t the words but the immediate understanding of their own new and different silent language. A fixed cuff, the shifted umbrella, a clenched fist, a barely turned head, it was fascinating.

He had been returned to the Yard where he finally made his way back home and he still had no idea what the impromptu meeting had truly been about. The brother clearly trusted him with Sherlock, or he would have been … dealt with years ago. So this meeting was unrelated to the words and the pompous man hadn’t seen fit to tell Greg what it was at the time. He backburner-ed the meeting, if a Holmes wanted to keep a secret he really didn’t care, he hadn’t been hurt and if the man committed murder it would surely be state sanctioned.

The second kidnapping was very similar: a car and an invitation that couldn’t be refused. He actually toyed with the idea of trying to refuse just to see what would happen. He didn’t. He was tired and just wanted to go home for dinner and sleep, the sooner he went the sooner he could relax. The car did not take him to a warehouse and he grew nervous. John had said it was always a warehouse, and the army vet didn’t lie. He was even more on edge when he saw the large house the car had pulled up to. Still Greg was far from a coward, he refused to feel out of place in his dirty work clothes, he after all had wanted to go home. He got out when the door was opened and was promptly abandoned by the driver. Standing alone in front of the impressive house he shrugged and went to the door.

He crossed his arms and refused to knock or ring the bell. If Mr. Holmes was going to have him kidnapped the least he could do was have the decency to have him met. He stared at the peephole for a full two minutes before the door opened. He was surprised to see the “minor government official” himself at the door and not some employee. In fact there were no employees visible at all. A raised eyebrow from Lestrade was met with an unnatural shrug from the refined man.

He was led inside, his coat was taken and disappeared into a closet. He tried hard not to be surprised that such a grand place had so mundane a room as a closet, immaculate of course but still a closet. He was offered a drink, he declined. He couldn’t help being on guard he felt he might need his wits about him. When he was led to the dining room he was both glad and disappointed with his decision. Honestly he couldn’t imagine a sober dinner with the odd brother of Sherlock Holmes. Possibly the man could charm his way into seeming normal, but Lestrade felt he wasn’t being charmed. The older brother was being himself for the old police officer.

They sat through the first course in silence. When the second was retrieved by Mr. Holmes himself Greg couldn’t hold his silence and demanded answers. The look he received was eerily similar to Sherlock’s you’re-an-idiot-I’m-quite-fond-of look, the twitch of the lips though, that was predatory. Lestrade realized that he hadn’t imagined the meals overtones or the man’s power. He accepted the drink then. The meal was finished with more polite conversation and honest to god suggestive eating by the Holmes man. The government man actually smirked. It was terrifying and if Greg was honest, a huge turn on.

The meal ended and he was invited upstairs to see the rest of the house. He refused. He couldn’t call the man by his first name even in his own head there was no way he would give into his libido. The man simply nodded. Lestrade was suddenly very aware of how powerless he really was here. If the man wanted to keep him here, lock him in a room and have his way with him, well, it was easily within his power. He took his coat gratefully and held it in front of him, he didn’t feel his knees until he was safely home and in his own shower giving in to his libido.

He spent a lot of time that week not noticing his newly acquired shadow and not thinking about how the black car had dropped him at his door without his input. He avoided Sherlock and John as well, they would either be concerned (John) or know something and not say (Sherlock) driving him mad, or tell everything and freak him out entirely (Sherlock again).

He managed a full ten days of pretending nothing had happened when something happened again. It was his off day and he was trying to relax when a knock at the door had him up from the couch and pulling it open. It was one of those men in suits that drove Mr. Holmes’ cars. He looked down at his own shirt, jeans, and battered sneakers but a grunt told him not to change. With a shrug he grabbed his jacket and locked the door out of habit. The driver held open the car door for him; he decided not to worry about how accepting he was of his now frequent kidnappings as he slid in.

He was greeted by and uncomfortable looking Holmes. He sat daring Lestrade to say anything about his clothes. Greg couldn’t have if he’d wanted to, he was speechless. Mr. Holmes in jeans and a button down was breath taking. He didn’t ask where they were going, he was aware he didn’t have the patience to tease the answer from the uncomfortable Holmes, and he was too busy trying not to devour the man with his eyes.

When the car stopped the two left the back seat and Greg understood the clothes. Mr. Holmes became Mycroft in that moment. They were at a football field. Not a large game, nothing more than a local club but there was beer and blokes-blokes calling out rowdily. A place Greg felt secure, at home, in control, and Mycroft clearly didn’t. The man was cordial though, stuck out like a pig on the tube but he was polite and even drank the weak beer and ate the curry chips good-naturedly. He did look at his greasy fingers in a barely contained disgust.

The game had been friendly enough, no intentional fouls were obvious, and the referee had almost nothing to do but keep time. The play had been end-to-end and well executed it had Greg cheering loudly for both teams. Mycroft had clapped politely at the occasional show of skill and each of the three goals. He also predicted who would score for Greg’s amusement. The polite applause had endeared the man to the drinking men that surrounded them in the stands they had claimed him as their lucky charm, much to Mycroft’s dismay. Greg had laughed heartily.

They were invited to the pub afterwards and Mycroft had started to accept. Greg had stopped him by interrupting, really he had plans tonight. The fans accepted and Mycroft turned his hungry eyes on the policeman. It had taken a few minutes to extradite themselves and fall into the backseat of the shiny black car. Then it took a great feat of will not to fall into each other.

Exiting the car Greg was touched, and felt himself fall the slightest bit in love. They were at his house not the imposing place where he’d felt so out of place. The message was clear, Greg would set the pace. A hand gripped his and he turned to those intense eyes. There was a message there too and it burned into him. _I don’t share._ Greg smirked. _Me either._

The next morning woke with a sigh and was quickly followed by a snorting chuckle.

_Can’t keep this from Sherlock._

_Surprised he hasn’t called yet._

 


End file.
